


Happy Ending, Elsewhere

by dontworryaboutanything



Series: Abe [5]
Category: Who Killed Markiplier? - Fandom
Genre: Fix-It, Who Killed Markiplier?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 20:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontworryaboutanything/pseuds/dontworryaboutanything
Summary: If there was another world-A really badly written fix-it fic as an apology for the angst.I hate trying to write in second person, so my apologies if it isn't great. I tried to leave most of the DA's dialogue up to your interpretation rather than written out, as it is in the first person videos.





	Happy Ending, Elsewhere

**Author's Note:**

> I tr i e d  
> It doesn't make a ton of sense but I just wanted to write them a world where everyone ends up better.

When you woke up, you were staring up at lights on a grid, flashing colors across the ceiling. Your head was buzzing, and heavy. You felt drunk, but maybe you were just still in shock, after everything.

But, then, Damien was patting your cheek gently, asking you to wake up, and you were more sober at once.  
That wasn’t possible.

You reached out, just to be sure your hand wouldn’t go through him, and you looked around the room in a frenzy. He was speaking, asking if you were alright, but you couldn’t hear him over your own heartbeat.

Had you been dreaming? Or predicting?  
Where was Mark?  
You rushed to your feet too quick, nearly toppled, but Damien caught you. Abe was sulking at the bar, scolded for knocking you on your ass, and you looked between him and the clock in panic.

It was one fifteen in the morning.

“We should get you to bed, come on,” Damien insisted, but you called out to Abe. He seemed surprised you knew his name, even as drunk as he was.

“What? You wanna apology, cause I’m no-” He was slurring, and annoyed, and you shook your head, asked where the others had went. “Why would I know?”

You pointed out, annoyed, and still very much physically under the effects of alcohol, that he was a detective. He seemed surprised you knew that, too, and got up to make his way back within hitting distance. Which, maybe you could work with. Damien still had hold of you, to keep you upright, but it was easy enough to pull away. You didn’t know your own capability for cursing until you aimed them at Abe, and then ran on unsteady feet. The house wouldn’t want you to get there, if it knew what you knew, but it didn’t. You were only another body to bleed, if things went wrong. If things went right.

But you knew.

No wonder it wanted you to sleep, somewhere else.  
No wonder Damien was begging you to wake, here, reaching out past this.

From a different world, there were echoes leaking through.

Abe was stumbling, and you worried about him taking the stairs, but you both made it down to the wine cellar in two decently solid pieces.

He was a good partner, doing exactly what you’d hoped, pulling his own gun as Mark pointed the revolver at the Colonel.

He didn’t know the chamber wasn’t loaded. Didn’t know Mark wouldn’t care if Abe pulled the trigger.

You tried to talk to Mark, but he wasn’t listening, he smiled and cocked the gun. William was trying to explain, but he was further gone than Abe. “- Just a game! Don’t-” 

Abe was too drunk to think better of it. He shot Mark.  
And maybe this was part of it. The real plan. Maybe it was inevitable.

But then the gun fell to the floor, went off and shattered a bottle from one of the shelves with the only bullet it held, and something in the floorboards screamed.  
It felt like an Earthquake.

Mark’s hand was bleeding. He was missing fingers, it hadn’t caught him at the wrist, and William was shouting, kneeling where Mark collapsed. He pulled the cloth from around his neck, tried to stop the bleeding.

Abe handed you his gun, not knowing why he had to but knowing he should, and you emptied the bullets into a different pocket. Mark was unfortunately sober, feeling every inch of the pain, crying out and refusing to bulge when the men tried to help him up.

“Don’t help me, you bastards, you ruined it! Like everything else! You-” He was shaking too much to speak then, and you wondered if he’d pass out. You came to his side, angry, and hurt, and tired from a lifetime lived in dreams somewhere cold. 

 

And you pressed your lips to his forehead.  
And he was restrained from lashing out but he screamed as if it had been agonizing, cruel. He stared at you, when he could open his eyes again, and seemed like a scared child.

You’d known him older, wiser, sadder. 

“You didn’t have to tell me, you won- You didn’t have to.” You didn’t realize you had. You were only forgiving him.  
Maybe he had to know, for that to be an option.

He went limp when Abe and William tried to help him, this time, and Abe stared at you in suspicion.  
“What did you do? How did you know about all this?” He asked, still slurring, but shocked barely more sober by the adrenaline.

You smiled, shrugged.  
“Tell you another time, Partner.”

And he looked around as it the roof would fall in on you.

“Don’t call me that.” He warned, and brushed past you to take Mark away.

The house didn’t take them in circles, didn’t pull them away when they went to the front door. Damien had rushed to help, Chef calling an ambulance.

You sat with them all on the front steps, and once the fresh air hit, Mark had curled in on himself. You wondered how long he’d been inside. He looked at William, who was still applying pressure to his bleeding hand, looked at Damien, who had found a coat to drape on his shoulders, and sobbed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

It was stiff, when William nodded. It was worse when he spoke. “I suppose- Well. I suppose I am too.” He was too drunk to mean it, yet, but morning would come this time.  
They had time.  
Not forever, now. But they had time.

Abe was staring off, looking contemplative, but up close his eyes were glazed over. You asked if you’d see him in the city, tomorrow. He nodded, looking at you at last. He wasn’t angry, now, just lost. 

You asked to see his wallet, and he was too confused to be mad about that either. He sat with you, away from the others, and told you their names.

Told you what happened to each. When he began to cry, he let you take his hand.

“Why do I think we know each other?” He asked, and you smiled.

“Because we will.”

“In case you can’t tell,” He held up the pictures. “That doesn’t usually go well.”

You nodded, solemn, mourning his spirit in the world in which he was right. But you didn’t let go of his hand, so he nodded back.

When the ambulance arrived, and Mark got in it with his friends, a support beam of the house crashed through a window, and the whole manor creaked with sorrow. Anger.

You pulled Abe with you, away, and Chef picked you up outside the gate in Mark’s car, offered to drive anywhere that wasn’t, “That shithole”.

The butler was sleeping in the front seat.

“Anywhere but that shithole.” Abe agreed, staring at it in the rear view as if he’d begun to catch on.

On the drive away, (to), you didn’t let go of Abe’s hand once. He didn’t let go of yours.


End file.
